


Resurrection

by CC99trialanderrorgirl



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, mentions of guns (no violence), michael/sara reunion, not angst, prison break season 5, reunion scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 03:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10868550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC99trialanderrorgirl/pseuds/CC99trialanderrorgirl
Summary: "Sara prepares to defend herself from a ghost..."





	Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> A/N This story can be read as pretty much any time you want in the PB timeline: as a brief encounter when Michael was working for Poseidon but managed to steal a few moments with his beloved wife (she thinks it's a dream when she wakes up), or as a meeting in an AU where Sara and Michael never reunited in Greece and Sara is either still with Jacob, or has split with him and thinks everything with Poseidon is over, explaining why she feels safe enough to sleep with the doors open.

_It’s a warm night, so Sara is sleeping naked; the French doors in her bedroom are open to the breeze. Michael sneaks in through the front door and creeps through the house, stopping at her bedroom door. He’s intending only to gaze on her for a few stolen moments, but she wakes up. Scared and disoriented and far too canny and experienced to have any other reaction, Sara grabs the gun she keeps in a hallowed-out book on her nightstand and prepares to defend herself from a ghost…._

                          ~

Michael’s fingers tightened on the gun. His eyes narrowed, but he never even blinked once. He didn’t think it would come to this. Even with all the scenarios he’d run through in his head, he could never have predicted this outcome: Sara, stark naked, feet firmly planted, confidently aiming a gun at him. Her hair lifted and swirled a bit in the breeze from the open French doors, but her stance never wavered. She’d learned a lot over the years, become tough and self-sufficient because she’d had to. And now, here in this moment, leveling a gun at her once beloved, she somehow made it seem effortless. Natural, even: a calm, competent pose, a reflection of that quiet confidence he remembered so well.

They stayed like that for a long time, waging some sort of silent war with their eyes locked and their weapons expertly trained on one another. In the end, it was Michael, not Sara, who broke first. He hadn’t even meant to, but the words escaped anyway. His lips barely moved to form the words, and he wasn’t breathing deeply enough to produce any sort of volume, but in the midst of their silent standoff, the sound of his surrender was as deafening as a bomb detonating.

“ _Sara_ …” 

The words were broken, soft, and in the same moment he was lowering his gun and slumping against the doorjamb, only coming to a stop after sliding down the wall into a heap, all the fight gone out of him. 

“Michael?” Her tone was incredulous, and her eyes had widened, as if she barely dared to hope but couldn’t quite stop herself from it, either. “Is it really you?” she breathed, so softly that it almost seemed that she was talking to herself. He lifted his head, and she saw it in his eyes – the earnestness, the sorrow; that singular mix of responsibility and guilt and a strange sort of innocence that had always characterized Michael. But Mike was in the house. Her first duty, even before her own heart, was to her son. So she had to be sure.

Softly, she spoke again, unable to keep the trembling out of her voice. “Tell me, when we were in Fox River together…” She trailed off, trying to think of something that she could be sure _only_ the real Michael Scofield would know. She cocked her head to the side, considered him carefully. “When – when you allegedly tried to convince me to aid and abet your escape, how…how did you do it, Michael?”

He smiled, just a small upturn of his mouth, but it was enough – an exact replica of the look he’d given her that day, right before, right before he’d –

“Well, _Doctor Tancredi_ ,” he answered, putting careful emphasis on the name she’d asked him to address her by back then, “I believe, I _believe_ ,” he repeated, “that I kissed you.” He paused for a moment, then smirked more widely; his blue eyes caught fire and danced with a familiar mischief. “Quite well if I recall.” He quirked an eyebrow, and all of a sudden, both guns were on the floor and they were rushing towards one another as if some existential, omnipotent force had commanded it.

“Michael, Michael,” Sara chanted, breathing the words against his neck, wrapping her whole body around him as he did the same to her.

“Sara…” he breathed again, his tone reverent, disbelieving, thankful. They were both crying. And then they were kissing, at first sweetly, and then hard, open-mouthed and rough enough to taste the tears.

There was so much to discuss, so much to consider. But right now, it was as if each of them had just witnessed a miracle, a modern-day resurrection: Michael Scofield and Sara Tancredi, two souls reunited and returned from the dead.


End file.
